


Kill the lights

by noero



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, Rough Sex, Sparring, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:02:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25235881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noero/pseuds/noero
Summary: In Keith's defense, Lance started it.
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 246





	Kill the lights

**Author's Note:**

> As I was writing this I had to ask myself if the world really needed another sparring-turned-sexual klance fic and arrived at the conclusion there could be 10,000 of these and it’d still never be enough for me. So, here we are. Mayhaps someone else out there feels the same way.

Keith _always_ wins.

* * *

  


In his defense, Lance starts it.

He sets it off after a mission, peeved off at Keith for sidelining him out of a ground battle to sort through intelligence instead. Which is dumb, because ground battles mean close-combat and hand-to-hand isn’t Lance’s forte. Plus, the team needed him and Hunk on surveillance. 

Keith explained as much, but Lance is also sometimes, well, _Lance_. And sometimes, _Lance_ likes to go out of his way to be difficult. 

“Hand-to-hand isn’t my… No, no, no. Hold up.” Lance stops and just kinda glares at him, sneers and jabs a finger toward Keith’s chest. He says, all offhanded and wry, in that tone he gets when he’s talking bigger and bolder than he is, “I could definitely take you.”

And Keith immediately points out that he definitely can’t — because he literally _can’t_ — and they argue about it for twenty minutes.

Something simple. That's how it starts.

* * *

  


Now they settle things twice in a movement on the training room floor, right at 2400 hours, when the Castle’s ambient light system transitions into it’s eerie synthetic blue twilight. They meet when the rest of the Castle Ship’s residents are all shut in their rooms for the night because, well, they’re _technically_ not allowed to do this. 

‘Cause there’s this game they play, but it always ends like this: Lance on the ground, cheek flush to the mat, Keith’s forearms digging into the space between his shoulder blades, and knees planted snug on either side of Lance’s hips. 

At some point Keith expects Lance to give up, to choke back the bravado and cool it down a notch, but he’s even more stubborn or stupid than Keith’s ever given him credit for. 

Lance sputters beneath him, indignant as always, and a tiny tremor rattles down Keith’s spine. He pushes harder, drags a sound from Lance that falls closer to a gasp, and Keith doesn’t know why but it’s _better_ so he does it again. 

“You done?” he huffs, chest heaving. “Tap out.”

Lance answers with a garbled curse, flattening his palms against the mat. He gathers what he thinks is the strength to push Keith off, only to grunt and drop his head back to the floor in defeat. 

Keith grits his teeth but doesn’t budge. “Tap. Out.”

Lance waits a minute longer, face red and panting — almost like he _likes_ it — before he finally yields. He’ll come up with countless excuses once he’s caught his breath. He’s too tired, too stressed, too hungry, and too distracted. He’ll win the next match. He swears.

(He won’t.)

This game, the sparring and wrestling — _fighting_ — started shortly after Shiro disappeared. It was that tenuous time when Keith lost his head a little, needing control over _something_ and Lance was desperate to impress someone, anyone, and he didn’t care who. It was a time when they both had a little something to prove.

If only it had stopped there.

* * *

  


“C’mon. Let’s go,” Lance says, shrugging out of his jacket. “I can tell you’re in a _mood_.”

“I’m not in a _mood_ , Lance,” Keith snaps back – because he most certainly is in a _mood_ – but maybe if Lance had to sit through a four-hour alliance negotiation dinner while feigning polite condolences toward a chancellor who’d accepted a fraudulent Galra kickback only days earlier, he’d be a little frustrated too. “Just focus on keeping up with me tonight.”

And maybe Keith’s an ass for it, but the comment has the desired effect. Lance makes a disgruntled sound in the back of his throat, mumbles something unflattering about Keith’s face, and charges straight for Keith’s midsection with no further warning. 

When they get like this, a little too keyed up, they get rough. 

The truth is Keith likes it this way. He likes it when they end up on the floor, when he’s got Lance coming at him with zero finesse but enough dense frustration to almost – _almost_ – get the upper hand. That’s when they’re struggling on the mats, Keith’s fingers around Lance’s biceps, Lance’s breath on Keith’s neck, and legs over his hips. 

There’s no value to training this way. Not like they’re gonna ever need to pin a wild Yalmor to the ground during a fistfight. This is the exact kind of dumbass fuckery that’ll have Lance fast-talk his way through some convoluted story over breakfast the next morning. It’ll have him talking all the way ‘til the ugly bruise above his left eye, roughly the size and shape of Keith’s fist, is all but forgotten. 

So, Keith supposes this isn’t any sort of training at all.

And Keith knows there’s something to unpack there but he doesn’t like thinking too hard about cause and effect. He only knows he likes the contact, the adrenaline surge, and the feel of the ground meeting his back when Lance gets that first good, hard shove in. He only knows he’s gotta press the right buttons and work Lance ‘til he’s _mad_ to get it. 

Keith only knows it feels good.

* * *

  


See, thing is, Keith fights a little dirty, or so he’s been told. He doesn’t pull his punches and doesn’t hold back. That’s just not in his repertoire. He keeps silently pleading for Lance to do the same. He keeps waiting. Lance keeps losing. 

If Shiro were around, he'd step in and tell them to cut this the fuck out. 

Probably wouldn't even have to say anything.

And yet.

He's not.

* * *

  


“You’re such a—” Lance grunts. Keith’s shoving him a little harder than necessary to throw off the grapple. He takes three seconds to catch his breath and then he’s bulldozing towards Keith’s midsection again, blocking Keith’s next shove. “Jackass.”

Keith laughs.

He likes Lance better when they play like this.

He enjoys this.

* * *

  


To Lance’s credit, something about the way he fights is measured. When he manages to focus, he thinks before he moves. Keith loves to point out that he _overthinks_ , and then later _underthinks_ , and all that slows him down more than anything. But the hard truth is he’s got Keith beat in defensive maneuvers when he stays focused. 

“Good,” Keith breathes. Lance goes after his legs and sends him backward. From the floor, he smiles up at Lance in the way that trips him up, and says it again. Lance, technically speaking, isn’t doing very good at all. They’ve been at it for twenty seven minutes and he’s sloppy with frustration and annoyance, wasting too much energy and doing that overthinking thing again, but he loves the compliments and Keith finds that a little funny. _”Good.”_

Lance stills, for only a fraction of a second but Keith takes it and pushes off the mat, flips Lance back over so his shoulders slam against the floor and he gets an arm under one knee. Lance struggles against the hold, jaw tight and hurling frustrated half-insults toward Keith. 

He’s hard against Keith’s hip — the adrenaline and aggression gets ‘em both hard every time. And it’s no big deal, really. That happened to all the boys back when they did grappling and holding drills in Phys Ed at the Garrison, but something catches in Lance’s eye when Keith pushes against him, something bordering on embarrassment, but less self-aware.

Keith tucks that away too, cuts him some slack. “You’re done. Tap out.”

Lance spends another two minutes trying to throw Keith off, and does it until he’s too tired to pretend he thinks he can win. 

* * *

  


Keith _always_ wins.

* * *

  


Keith _likes_ to win.

* * *

  


They’re on their third round of the night when Keith realizes they've made a mistake. 

Lance slipped up on an easy block during the first match and now his lip’s busted and there’s blood smudged across his cheek. He’s mad, worked up because he missed a crucial shot during their last battle, and now he’s unfocused and sloppy and he’s missing everything else too. All that emotion, that frayed energy, is right there in the furrow of his brow as they circle each other on the mat.

And Keith gets it. He really _gets it_. He knows that frustration of feeling like he could’a done more but choked and—

When Lance drives forward to lock up, Keith doesn’t bother praising or taunting him, just lets him run his energy full force. He topples Keith backward, easier than he has all night, and Keith lets him take some ground. He gives Lance that inch. He knows Lance needs it. 

They struggle on the floor for several beats until Lance manages to get Keith into a solid hold with his knees on the mat, arm around his waist, and Lance’s chest against his back. 

Keith can’t put his finger on it at first but it’s like there’s a change in atmosphere when they get on the floor like that. There’s a subtle shift in how Lance holds him, a shift in the pressure of each single point of contact. The moment feels motionless, stuck in the dim light and the quiet of the night.

Then Lance stills for a fraction of a second, coughs out a stiff “Wait. Hold up.”

“What? Why?“ Keith pauses, turns his head and drops his shoulders. He’s about to shove Lance off because he doesn’t feel like lying there for no good reason when Lance tightens back up and tangles a hand in Keith’s hair, keeping his face pressed to the mat. Keith sputters, _“Dick.”_

Keith flattens his palms on the mat and readies himself to push Lance off, pin him and call it a match — last one, at that. But the moment he raises his hips Lance is maneuvering down against him and the sound he makes, something between a gasp and a hiss, isn’t one of plain exertion. 

The sound he makes is the same one Keith enjoys so, so much when he’s got Lance pinned and he’s fighting it, wanting so bad to throw Keith off, but it hits different — deeper — with Lance hovering over him instead. 

Keith grunts, still face to the floor, and the next several seconds pass in a blur. Fingers still gripping Keith’s hair and weight pressed on that forearm, Lance drags the other arm holding Keith’s waist downward and begins fumbling with his belt. He’s panting hard against the back of Keith’s neck, warming and then cooling the sweat gathered there. 

The change of pace is so jarring, the adrenaline pooling in the pit of his stomach so quickly, that Keith’s brain doesn’t catch up to what’s happening until his belt clamors to the floor and Lance is tugging at his pants. He’s been revved up since their first match, half hard, and desperate, and that’s nothing new but—

He grabs Lance’s wrist to stop him, squeezes hard until Lance goes rigid behind him. He doesn’t have a chance to open his mouth to question what the ever loving fuck Lance is doing before Lance is stammering out a frantic “Sorry! Sorry!” as he scrambles backward, trying to free himself from Keith’s grip. 

He loses his balance when Keith abruptly releases his hold and he slides back, off the vinyl mat and straight onto the steel floor. He’s flushed, wide-eyed, and blatantly abashed, still mumbling apologies.

Keith frowns at his retreating back, collapsing back down on the mat.

The moment is gone.

* * *

  


The truth is Keith doesn’t get this game anymore. 

He doesn’t understand the rules anymore.

* * *

  


Lance doesn’t try it again. He doesn’t mention it. He pretends it didn’t happen.

They still meet. They still wrestle. They still roll around on the floor together. 

Keith still gets turned on by it.

He can call it that now. He can admit it. He just can’t figure out if he’s allowed to say anything to Lance about it. He can’t figure out if he’s allowed to _do_ anything about it.

Even if he knows Lance does too.

Because it _did_ happen.

* * *

  


Lance started it, but Keith intends to finish it. 

* * *

  


“One more,” Keith declares after their fourth match of the night. 

“Seriously, man?” Lance sighs from where he’s sprawled out on the mat, rubbing a hand over his bruised cheek. He’s got one knee pulled up and the leg of his loose workout shorts is slipping down along his thigh. 

Keith quickly refocuses his attention back on his water packet and motions for Lance to stand. “Yeah. C’mon. Get up.” 

“Geez,” Lance kicks his legs out but makes no move to stand. “You’re, like, really wound up tonight or what?”

“Something like that,” Keith shrugs as he walks barefoot back across the mat and gets into position. “One more. And _try_ this time.”

Lance’s jaw tightens at the jab but he pulls himself up all the same, despite the shift in atmosphere. He’s mad now. Good.

They circle each other twice and Keith allows Lance the first shove. He lands it hard, throws Keith off balance and they topple backward. Lance attempts a pin first but Keith throws him off with ease.

The struggle is better when they’re both tired like this, all those soft, little sounds they make blending in with the slap of skin on the ground. This way is easier. This way is better for Keith to daydream about Lance’s nails digging into bed sheets instead of the sticky mats. 

Keith’s the one to grab Lance’s hair this time, gets him on his knees, under him, back hot against Keith’s chest. He hisses, the way Keith wants him to, and Keith crowds him closer so they’re both locked still, panting into the quiet room.

“You done?” Keith breathes.

Lance scoffs. He's catching on. “Are you?”

“Almost,” Keith says, dragging the hand resting over Lance’s midsection down his hips and around to his inner thigh. He pauses, waits for Lance to object but only feels him tremble. Heart beating wildly in his chest, Keith surges forward and cups Lance through his shorts.

Lance laughs, a short and breathless sound, wracked with nerves. “So, winner takes all now, I guess?”

Keith rolls his palm over Lace’s cock, feels it twitch against his palm even with the fabric between them. He squeezes. “Sounds fair.”

He barely catches Lance's affirmative, then he’s pressing into Lance’s back, lowering his shoulders while grinding against his ass and stroking him through his shorts. Each subtle move earns a pinched little noise from Lance’s lips: a gasp, an eager grunt, followed by an increasingly desperate hum. For once, he's not talking, and there's no empty words for Keith to swallow down.

All of it settles in the pit of Keith’s stomach, pulls him closer to the edge because he loves every stupid sound Lance makes. He loves that he’s the one doing it, making him whine and whimper. And it shouldn’t shock him that Lance is noisy during sex but he wants to push it further and further, wants to see how far he can shove him. 

And this is a bad idea. This is a mistake. There’s probably a hundred reasons why they shouldn’t be doing this right now, even bigger than the hundred reasons they shouldn’t have been fighting in the first place. Barely even friends and yet here they are, about to become fuck buddies or some shit, immediately after kicking each other’s asses. 

There’s something wrong with them.

At least, something wrong with him. 

Definitely.

And Keith tucks it away with everything else. He buries it because he doesn’t have the patience to care. He’s not gonna debate the rationality of wanting Lance when he already knows that _logically_ he’s fucked up for this.

“Yeah?” he urges, straight against Lance’s ear, quickening the pace of his hand and thumbing over the head of Lance’s cock. Keith knows it must feel good but Lance makes a frustrated noise, thrusting forward only to be met with too little friction and Keith remedies it, tells Lance that one little word he loves to hear, _“Good.”_

Even if he's not sure he means it.

And that's all it takes. Lance comes quickly then, his body jerking and collapsing beneath Keith with a heavy sigh, too lost in the afterglow to care he just messed in his shorts. Then Keith’s pushing his shirt up and bunching it beneath this shoulders so his back is bare, glistening with sweat. 

Keith jerks himself off as Lance catches his breath beneath him, one hand steadying himself on Lance's hip and the other quickly tugging his own cock. The whole thing is a mess. Everything is a mess and he doesn't know what they'll say to each other afterwards, but he does it anyway, because he likes Lance better this way and he wants to like Lance as much as he wants him. 

He's distracted as he comes all over Lance's back, watching how Lance's hands fist beside his head and, he's not one hundred percent sure he's even thinking of Lance, but he might be. He tries to. Lance stepped up when he had to, was there for Keith when he needed him, and fucked up or not, Keith likes this, and he feels like he’s earned it.

All of it.

* * *

  


Keith _always_ wins.

He's not sure why he always wants to.

**Author's Note:**

> ♥


End file.
